Undead Hearts Still Beat
by Dawn Moon
Summary: Precursor to VTM: Bloodlines. A dark girl meets a darker man one night. Their meeting would change a life...and an unlife.


**DM:** This particular story is largely based on "Vampire: The Masquerade: Bloodlines." This is my precursor to the game, and my female Malkavian's back-story. I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: Okay, White Wolf owns the in-game characters, places, and a few tidbits of dialogue I'm using. A friend of mine, Philip, created the name Myyrth, but the character is my own. All other stuff in here is mine.

**Beast**  
Humanity  
_Thoughts_ (Tandem: _Myyrth, __**Wrayth**_)  
_Voices_

-  
Undead Hearts Still Beat

**-The Asp Hole, midnight-**

"That haunting beauty. Who is she?"

The bartender stopped wiping the glass in his hand and glanced up. The guy's eyes were glued to a girl at the end of the bar. Perched on the stool like a statue, her golden eyes locked on the half empty glass in her hand. Her black hair shielded her from the eyes of those around her, falling in a jetty curtain. "Who, her? Don't bother, dude. She don't say nothin' to no one, won't even let you buy her a drink."

"I was thinking she'd give me a libation."

"Uh, yeah, now you're really dreamin'. Well, it's your pride, man." He shrugged. He'd seen many a guy get shot down by that girl. This guy was weird, too, but he didn't know if that would make it better, worse, or just funnier.

"My minds have decided that they like you."

With a gasp at the unexpected interruption to her isolation, she tuned to regard the young man beside her. Shirtless, his head shaved but for about a dozen sporadic spikes of ash brown hair. Icy gray eyes glowed behind yellow Ray-Bans. Good-looking yes, but she really wasn't in the mood tonight, or any night. With a sigh, she recited her mantra. "I don't take drinks from strangers. I don't want to dance. I'm not new here, and I come here a lot. Anything else I can do for you, Corey Hart?"

He laughed, a dark, stirring sound. Something was decidedly off about this guy, she could tell. Gently, soothingly, he took her hand. His skin was strangely cool for such a warm night. "You can give me the blessing of your company, dark angel."

She glared and snatched her hand away. "Curious little boys shouldn't touch broken glass."

He jumped visibly and she smirked, thinking that had turned him off. Unexpectedly, he sat on the stool next to her and gazed into her eyes. "Your beauty has cut me to the heart already."

She frowned. This guy was the original poet perve. He wasn't skeevy, just oozy. Finally, she smiled. Couldn't hurt to let him lavish words on her for a while. "You're a little weird. Which is a nice change from all the other norms."

He nodded and smiled a perfect, toothy grin. "We share our strangeness in many ways."

"Yeah? How?"

"Broken glass. You are a shattered doll, I am a cracked mirror."

Her heart lurched in her chest. "Shattered doll...that's funny. I had a dream about that the other night." She stopped. Why should she tell him this? She didn't even know him. He took her hand again, holding it like a dear friend would.

"Tell me your tale, shattered china doll."

She smiled sadly. "I don't let just anyone in here," she said, tapping her lacquered fingernail against her temple, "let alone a self proclaimed 'cracked mirror'."

His eyes probed deeply into hers. "It may soothe your soul to see a reflection of it."

Such strange words...she could use a little soothing...

"In my dream, I was born in a toyshop as a porcelain doll. The toy maker fashioned me himself. For a doll, I was quite a dish. For a while, he was proud of me and the attention I drew to the shop, but eventually he grew jealous of the many offers to buy me. He would change my hair, repaint my face, anything to make me seem less desirable. Eventually, he put me high up on a shelf so no one could see me. He didn't want anyone to have me. Finally, he realized that he couldn't keep me forever. He took me from the shelf, grasped my feet and, smashed my face into the counter. Then I woke up."

"The toy maker..."

She help up a hand, and he could see the faint line of a scar on her wrist."Spare me the interpretation, I've heard it all before. My father, yes. Put me in the hospital a few times. The last time, I had to have my cheekbones restructured. You can guess this didn't leave me in the best state of mental health. Therapy was a joke, just the same questions over and over. So I just stopped going." She laughed bitterly. "They never did anything to him. They put me through years of useless therapy but...they did nothing to him...not even a slap on the wrist..."

"The blind lady works in erratic ways, Whitney."

Her grip on his hand tightened a little and she shook her head. She never realized that she hadn't introduced herself. "I left that name behind when I left my father. He gave me that name."

"You are a wandering soul."

No come ons, no pick up lines. He really seemed to get her. She felt like she could listen to him talk forever. For the first time in a long time, she felt at ease. "Call me Wrayth."He gave her a puzzled look. She chuckled, embarrassed. "It may seem silly, but I like it. It suits me."

"You masquerade in this name. You and I are even more alike." He stood and bent near to her hand, kissing it softly. The hot copper smell floated around him. "Tragic Spirit, may I accompany you through the spirit world?"

Her aversion replaced with curiosity, she stood up and smiled. "Sounds like a laugh."

He laughed, that dark, thrilling sound again. It sent a delicious shiver through her. "So insightful. That is what you will call me." He smiled and leaned close to her ear beneath the dark hair. "Myyrth." His whisper tickled the loose hairs around her ear and she giggled, something else she hadn't done in years. This might be fun after all.

**-Later, The Lucky Star Motel-**

The pair laid on the bed, still clothed, their hands intertwined. Wrayth lolled her head to the side and looked at Myyrth's handsome profile. "So where'd you grow up, Myyrth?"

"This dark city of angels has been my resting place for longer than my mind's remember." He massaged the back of her palm with his thumb. "What of your past self?"

"San Francisco." She wrinkled her nose, a move that Myyrth found quite appealing. "Humph, California: Land of Eternal Sunshine"

At the mention of sunshine, Myyrth shuddered. Wrayth noticed his reaction and nodded. "Not a daytime dweller, eh? Me neither. I have a rare form of XP. Any amount of sunlight gives me third degree burns. It sucked at first, but I've gotten used to living at night. What about you?"

Myyrth, who had been drinking in all she said, startled as she questioned him. "Huh?"

"Any particular aversion to the Bright Yellow Pain in the Ass?" His eyes darted away from hers and she sat up, concerned. "What?"

"B-Burns. My skin is kindling as well."

"Well, you're lucky. You don't look like you have any scars. Me on the other hand," She flipped onto her stomach and raised her shirt up about three inches, "it's a different story."

Myyrth rose and looked at what she'd unveiled. Across the small of her back, twisted scars marred her otherwise perfect skin. The ruined flesh was shiny, pink, and ropy. It occurred to him that she didn't show this to just anyone. "Why make me a witness to this?"

She turned her head to the side and looked up at him. "Well, you seem like the kind of person who doesn't discriminate, and I like that. I want you to know what you're getting into." Her golden eyes pleaded for acceptance from him. He extended a hand to her and helped her sit up. They faced each other, communing through their eyes.

Myyrth smoothed her shirt down and caressed her back. "I am one who can see past the cracks of your doll face."

She smiled at his strangely beautiful turn of phrase. "Then I don't mind seeing myself in a shattered looking glass."

That vibration went through him again and he captured her mouth with his. She startled a bit, but at last let her arms fold around him. He probed gently with his tongue and pulled her beneath his body, gently pressing his weight into her. His fangs throbbed at the roots as he swept a hand down her full breasts.

Immediately, she whimpered and pulled away. "No, no. Please, not yet." The innocent, saddening whisper resonated into him, shocking him out of his lustful trance. He looked down at her beautiful face, watched as a tear pulled black kohl liner down her temple. Something deep inside him pulled painfully, but it was no hunger pang. It felt like...sympathy.

He sat up and turned away, gripping the mattress. "Forgive me, Tragic Spirit. You simply caressed my soul with yours. My apologies." He stared into the white space of the wall, his consciousness slipping inward as her voice, telling him not to worry, began to fade...

/  
Myyrth walked the twisted corridors of his mind. He passed myriad doors, some unlocked and labeled with memories he recalled, a few guarded with razor wire that he dared not try to open. Resonating from each were the ghostly whispers that spoke of their obscure wisdom.

Finally, he came upon what he was looking for. The arena: roped with more razor wire, its mat thick with blood. The place where his Beast and his Humanity battled for control. At times, the two grappled mightily, other times the battles were decidedly one-sided. Once he recalled his Beast had grown so strong that his Humanity had all but disappeared to avoid being ripped apart by the lupine creature's claws.

Within the stadium, he saw his Beast struggling helplessly beneath the foot of his Humanity. The monster slathered and growled, demanding to drink from the woman, only to be answered by his other half crushing harder into his throat. He noticed Myyrth's presence and turned his ghostly eyes away from the battle. They were serene and comforting.

_She was supposed to be dinner tonight. What has changed?_

She brings us closer.

**No! I hunger! Let me GO!**

Silence, Monster.

_Broken glass goes with the one who repairs._

The spectral voice interrupted Myyrth's inner debate. A hundred years of unlife and the voices still startled him. He may not have learned to anticipate them, but he knew that they were part of what kept him from Final Death in all those years. Whether this meant that he was to heal Wrayth, or if she was his healer, he intended to find out.  
**-Two weeks later, The Last Round-**

Like a child at Christmas, as his memory served, Myyrth sat anxiously at the bar in the Last Round. Every now and then, he would glance over his shoulder at the door, expecting to see her come in.

Damsel walked over to him, leaning one elbow on the bar. "Myyrth, will you stop doing that? You're making me crazy!"

He flicked some cigarette ash away from him and cut his eyes up to her. "Perhaps some of my father's blood runs in your Brujah veins..."

"Yecch, don't say shit like that. You kooks and your damn headcase bullshit."

"Apologies, Damsel of Distress, if my-"

"Cut the crap, man. I know why you're like this. That little breather stood you up."

"I have not been left standing yet. My apparition has never failed to haunt me," he insisted, earning a snort and a shrug from Damsel as she returned to her post.

"And I won't either."

With a radiant smile, Myyrth turned to the owner of the voice behind him. He took two steps toward her and took her hand, bending low to brush it with his lips. "Sweet Spirit." He had long since stopped calling her tragic.

"Laughing Boy," she answered, her voice breathy. He rose, a frown where his smile had been.

"You are not you. What has morphed you?"

"Let's leave. We need to talk."

"No libations from the liberators?" She shook her head and Myyrth nodded. He hailed Damsel as they stepped out the door into the night.

**-Myyrth's Haven-**

Myyrth sat with his arm draping over Wrayth's shoulder. Her hands circled a hot cup of lemon tea he kept in his kitchen for her. The smell of it made him uneasy, but not as much as the pallor in Wrayth's cheeks. "What sickens your soul, my spirit?"

She shook her head, not daring to look at him for fear of breaking down. "It's crazy sometimes, the way you seem to know things. My doctor didn't call here or anything did he?"

Myyrth shook his head. "No. What does Hippocrates's progeny have to do with you?"

Wrayth rotated the hot mug in her hands, nervous. "I see this night shift dermatologist for my XP. He checks me out every week to see how I heal, if any of the new treatments work, that kind of...of..."

Myyrth reached out and caught the cup before it could hit the floor. He set it on the edge of the bed and gathered her into his arms, her body shivering with heavy sobs.

"Did this healer harm you?" His Beast growled at this development, searching for an excuse to rip someone up.

"No, no, nothing like that. It's...Myyrth, I'm..." She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath and straightened. "I have skin cancer."

Something cold and heavy hit Myyrth's stomach. The forgotten mug slipped off the bed, shattering as it hit the wooden floor. Hot, lemony liquid splashed all over Wrayth's bare legs, but she didn't notice. "The, uh...the doctor says that scar on my back is spiked with cancer. It's been there so long that it's fused to the tissue around my spine, and that means it's inoperable." She turned anguished gold eyes to his. "I'm terminal."

That thing that hit Myyrth's stomach froze solid and sent a jolt through him. For the first time in a century, real shock, real pain racked his body. He reached for her, but she rose and stepped away from him. "Where do your feet take you?" He jumped up and grabbed her hand. She turned to face him, trying to pry her hand from his. He resisted.

"Please, Myyrth. Don't make this harder on me."

"I know your body is sick, but your soul is perfect. Don't take it from me."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me."

He took her other hand and pulled her close to him. She didn't embrace him. "Pity is not one of my personalities."

"I'm going to die Myyrth. I don't know how long I have." Her arms didn't move, but she relaxed against his chest.

"You need not try to shield me from life's trouble. Share it with me."

At last, she looped her arms around his waist and held him. "I want to stay, but I can't ask you to stay with me. I can't ruin your life."

"My life is with you."

Her hold tightened, squeezing his muscled torso. "I'm not ready to die, Myyrth! I don't want to miss life...miss you...us." As he continued to soothe her, he detached from the world and retreated into his psyche...

/  
He shuffled slowly to the arena, where he found his Beast and Humanity standing calmly, awaiting him. He faced them.

_She's dying._

**Yes. She's dying anyway...drain her...Give her to me...**

No. Your blood will save her. Give of yourself.

**Force a bond? No, she will hate you. As she should. Give in...**

_What can I do? I can't lose her._

**Kill her.**

Make her yours.

**Slake my thirst.**

Honor your own Humanity.

_SHUT UP!_

Pulling free of his internal struggle, he turned his attention to his sobbing soul mate. True, she was dying, but he could never take this beautiful creature from the world before her time. Neither could he make her his ghoul. That was reserved for lackeys and quick fixes. What could he do?

"What can I do?" He asked, panic giving his mind a bit of lucidity.

An eternity passed before she pulled away from the embrace. Lifting her head, she let her eyes caress him. After that first night at the Lucky Star, he had never pressured her for anything more than the deep wonderful kisses they shared. Sometimes, he would come over before the sun came up and sleep next to her during the day. But he'd never made any move to do anything more than hold her. He was so sweet to her. He brought laughter back into her life.

Her eyes traveled to his. Such beautiful eyes; their silvery gaze held her so completely. The fact that the end of her life was approaching made him seem so much more precious now. No more waiting, no more wasting time. She reached up, pulling his face to hers for a long kiss. He responded but didn't lose himself in it. She pulled back and stared passionately into his eyes.

"I need you, Myyrth."

He stepped back, holding her at arms length. He searched her face. "You ask a grave thing of me."

"And I'm going to my grave. But before I do, I want to go with the knowledge that I finally fell in love."

Love.

Love?

Did he know what love was anymore? His sire had told him that Kindred couldn't love. Had he ever...in life, who was she?

Genevieve...yes. A century ago, she was love. He pictured her beauty; dark hair, golden eyes.

No wait. That was Wrayth.

He felt it. His undead heart felt love. Felt Wrayth. She was love now.

This new knowledge filled his mind and sent it reeling with a yearning he hadn't felt since their first night at the Lucky Star. He held her hands, pulling them up to press warming lips to them. "Take stock of your request. Make sure it is what you want."

"I want you. I need you," she purred, running her hands all over his body. Seizing him, she pulled him next to her on the bed and began kissing him.

Moments later, they had fallen upon each other, tearing their clothes off, clinging to each other with their lips. Myyrth's mind reeled. He had never felt this close to living since he died. The Beast within him growled softly in tranquility while his Humanity and all parts of his body sang. As their flesh became one, they thrust together in a harmony of passion.

The rasp of his Beast's whisper spoke to his rejoicing Humanity, who hushed him. The monster continued to speak in a poisonous whisper and finally his Humanity stopped long enough to listen. Unwaveringly, he reached out his steadying hand to a far corner of Myyrth's mind. This touch surfaced in a decision that, in his grip of incredible pleasure, he was almost unable to comprehend. In between a gasp of passion, he wrapped his arms around her and sat up, her legs entwined around his waist. Leaning his mouth close to her ear, he nuzzled the sweat-soaked tendrils of darkness around it.

"I can save you. Your spirit will live on forever."

His warm breath tickled her ultra-sensitive skin and she giggled low in her throat. This sultry sound stroked the mane of his Beast and his mouth latched onto hers. She pulled him down again, moaning in pleasure as her hand shot out involuntarily, knocking a lamp from the night stand.

"Save me," she gasped, thinking she was playing along with pillow-talk. He pulled back, preparing for the final rise of thrusts and gazed into her eyes, capturing her.

"I want to show you something."

Anticipating her climax and thrilling at the change in his voice, she clawed his back and trembled in pleasure. Then he drew his perfect lips away from his teeth.

His teeth.

His...fangs.

A cold stab of fear sliced through her brain and she let out a short scream of surprise. In a swift motion, he descended on her neck, pristine fangs piercing her skin. What should have been a scream of pain came out as a cry of pleasure as the most intense orgasm that she could have imagined exploded through her. His growl of release vibrated on her skin as he contracted within her.

She felt no pain, which was odd, because she felt her blood flowing out of her. But she wasn't bleeding; he was drinking from her. The gentle, hypnotic rhythm of his sucking beat in time to the waves of pleasure rippling through her. His arms still held her and he began rocking her into a dark, quiet sleep.

Cold copper spread on her tongue and she let it slide down her breathless throat.

-

_Eyes open to a dead sight._

Let her be.

_Welcome to the maggot's realm._

**Hunger...I thirst!**

Don't rush her.

_Shut up! Who are you? Where am I? Myyrth!_

She sat up quickly, and immediately wished she'd stayed down. When her head stopped spinning, she glanced around frightened, her hand reaching up to touch the wound on her neck. It was gone.

"Tragic Spirit."

The soft male voice echoed in the room and she looked up. Her mismatched eyes, one of his gray and the other her own gold, met his and she felt a mixture of fear and relief. He was reclining on a small couch, a sad smile on his face.

"Laughing-"

Her greeting was interrupted as the door exploded in splinters. A young man in a three-piece suit burst into the room and flung something in Myyrth's direction. She looked and saw a foot-long wooden stake protruding from his sculptured chest. She tried to scream, but another man, this one red-haired and beautiful, grabbed her and plunged a similar stake just through her left breast.

Pain. Darkness. Pain.

-

_Wake up, Tragic Spirit._

_**Laughing Boy? Your voice has left you. Where is your body?**_

_Open your eyes and see me. We are in our final act._

_**I hear you in my head.**_

_We share our minds, you and I. And our mental malady._

_**I don't...I can't...**_

_I couldn't lose you to Death. He is a cold and uncaring lover._

_**The creature, the one who smells of the sewers. Why does he hold you?**_

_In this life, there is a fool, a jester who disguises himself in royal robes. He thought me part of his fold and now seeks to make an example of me._

_**Example? He seeks to...what? Wait. His monster. A Beast within commands his beastly soldier.**_

_I always loved your insight, Tragic Spirit. I have arranged that you will be able to share it with others beyond tonight._

_**Don't let them do it! Don't leave me, my laughter. I need you.**_

_I'll always be with you. Reach deep into your shattered psyche, and there I'll be._

_**No! You are my eyes! I am blind without you!**_

_Others will sight your eyes, I have seen to it. Trust in the pull of your blood, and heed the whispers._

_**My love...**_

_Yes. Hold that to your still heart. It will save you, as it saved me. Thank you, my sweet, sweet spirit. You pulled my soul from fiery finality. Remember us. Remember love. Remem-_

The mental connection was severed abruptly as Myyrth's head left his shoulders. Wrayth's body spasmed and she gasped in physical pain. She watched, powerless to stop it, as his body crumpled to the floor and burst into flames. When the fire died, no scrap of him remained, not even ash. He was gone.

Anguish reared within her, but she was too weak to even cry out. Her strange eyes slid to the man in front of her who talked on, his voice garbled in her ears. Before her, an audience sat, watching with cold eyes. Hot anger spread through her limbs, renewing a minute bit of her strength.

_You will pay. You will all pay. You bastards. Sitting there, watching. You will pay!_

"THIS IS BULLSHIT!"

She turned her attention to the owner of the new voice. Dark-haired, compact, hard anger in his arctic blue eyes. He glared at the man who had been speaking. He noticed her stare and flicked his eyes to her.

_Eight before him have fallen...he knew laughter..._

The voice echoed around her. She glanced about, a ball of fear tightening in her chest. That wasn't Myyrth's voice. Where had it even come from? Did anyone else hear it?

_"We share our minds, you an I. And our mental malady...Heed the whispers."_

Myyrth's words were still fresh in her muddled mind and she realized just what he meant. Somehow, his mind had leaked its strangeness into hers. A curiosity took hold of her and she stretched her hands, bound behind her back, to allow her fingers to stroke the deadly scar on her back. Her skin was smooth, perfect, and cool. He had indeed saved her...and died eternally for it. For her.

The monster to her right sheathed the gargantuan sword that had taken Myyrth from her. The redheaded Adonis behind her hauled her to her feet and cut her bonds. The crowds of beings in the house filed out, murmuring and chattering as they went. The man who had spoken for her glanced behind him, catching her eyes. There was unfathomable sadness in them, dressed with the same anger she had seen before. He turned to go as the man who named himself Prince approached her. He spoke, but she was oblivious, only hearing warped sounds. He escorted her to a door, rambling on about a saintly lady and a god. After what seemed an eternity of his voice buzzing in her ears, he bid her good evening and brushed past her.

Alone, she started through the door, sorting out all that had happened. Something Myyrth had done had changed her and he had died for it. Now, his murderer asked a favor of her? This fool took her laughter away from her and now he expected her to be his hands? Obviously, he thought she owed him. Not a chance.

Just as she was about to disappear into the night, a thought floated through her confused brain. He needed her to do something for him. He needed her, a "fledgling" as he called her. This meant his power was limited, as was his perception. There was a visible chink in this jester's armor. What it was escaped her, but if she could find out: she couldn't bring Myyrth back, but she could bring down his killer.

_Revenge...Revenge on you, Demon Jester...Thief...Murderer...Revenge._

But how to go about it? She could barely walk straight and the dull throb where the stake had been in her chest mingled with a burning thirst she just noticed. Somehow, she had to find a way to avenge her lost soul mate. But how?

"Ah, ha ha ha ha ha! Whatta scene, man! Whoo-ee!"  
-


End file.
